Dickmail

I don’t get that much email.  But my dick does.  My dick gets a ton of email every day.

I get a few personal emails every day.  Some are from women I know.  None of the women I know ever write emails to my dick.  I wish that they would, but they do not. 

Nonetheless, my dick gets lots and lots of emails everyday from complete strangers.  It seems that bunches of people I do not know are really worried about my dick and its wellbeing.

I — not my dick — get email from strangers about penny stocks and weight loss.  But almost all the other email I get is dickmail.  It is for my dick.

Not only that, but I looked into the whole penny stock thing.  I wasn’t really interested in buying any penny stocks, but I wanted to know what was up with them.  It turns out it is a scam called “pump and dump” and it really, actually, truly works to make money for the people who send those emails to strangers.  You can read about it in these two dull articles if you are into boredom: “Spam Works” and “The Effect of Stock Spam on Financial Markets.”

Now, I was quite familiar with and terribly fond of the phrase “Pump and Dump” long before I skimmed but did not read these articles, but the phrase “Pump and Dump” had absolutely nothing to do with stocks.  Other phrases that mean the same thing to me as “Pump and Dump”: “Hit and Run” and “Fuck and Chuck.” So it seems to me that even the penny stock emails are dickmail.

The emails I get from strangers selling porn are obviously also dickmail. 

Then there are the “tired girl emails”:

Hello!  I am tired this evening.  I am nice girl that would like to chat with you.  Email me at only, because I am using my friend’s email to write this.  To see my pics

I think the reason that Tired Girl does not finish that last sentence is because she falls asleep at the keyboard. 

Still, this is dickmail.  It is just not a very good dickmail.  Tired Girl, if you are so tired, why would you like to chat with me tonight?  Maybe you should get some rest instead.  Also, Tired Girl, if you want to chat, why not send me your IM screen name instead of your email address?  Why aren’t you using your own email to send this anyway?  Is this “friend” of yours male or female?  Would she like in on the action?  I am a lot more interested if your friend is interested, too.  Even if I am tired, too, your friend makes what you’re offering a lot more appealing to my dick, especially if your friend is not as fucking tired as you are. 

But the real reason this is a shitty dickmail that only a complete and utterly hard-up goddamn moron would respond to is this: if you are such a nice girl, why the fuck would I want to chat with you or to see your goddamn pics in the first place?  You are just wasting my time.

Of course, I also get a lot of emails advertising Rolex replicas.  But, let’s face it: that is dickmail, too.  If you tell me that a Rolex watch is a superior, meticulously crafted timepiece easily worth at least $5,000, then fuck you.  If that’s how you honestly feel about it, you are a fucking retard.  But fine.  It’s your five grand.  But if you spend $149 on a Rolex rip-off, you can’t tell me that you are interested in the handcrafted mechanism or the attention to detail or anything besides the counterfeit brand name.  You are buying a fucking $149 watch made in an Asian sweatshop by a twelve-year-old.  You can only be buying it to impress other people.  Buying a fake Rolex is all about getting your game on.  Your dick does the buying.

And all of this dickmail is just the beginning.  Pretty much, almost all the rest of the email I get might as well be sent directly to my dick.  A lot of my dickmail wants to make my dick bigger.  A lot of it wants to make my dick harder.  And some of it wants to make me cum in pints instead of ounces.

And, you know, I want all of that!  I want a porn-dude-sized dick.  Hell, I want a dick so big that I can buy my dick its own fucking fake Rolex to wear.  I figure that if a fake Rolex for my wrist will get me more pussy, a second fake Rolex worn on my enormous cock will not only get women to let me assfuck them during our very first fuckfest, but afterward they will gratefully eat the corn that my massive rod plunges out their small intestines.  Now, that’s status!

Yes, it makes sense that — beyond a certain threshold — women do not really care about how big your dick is.  It makes sense because of natural selection: if women preferred big, giant dicks, then dicks would be getting bigger and bigger because women would choose mates with bigger dicks.  Whatever.  Here is my opinion: if there is such a thing as too small, then size must matter.  Right?  And there is such a thing as too small, right?  Come on.  Don’t act like you don’t know.  Okay then, since we have established that size matters, then bigger must be better, right?

You’re shaking your head only because you have a small dick.  My logic is flawless and you know it.

Women act like size doesn’t matter, but we all know that if we had bigger dicks, we would get rock star parking outside of nightclubs, we would actually get laid in the champagne room, and women we know would ask us to bang their supermodel friends.  If I had a twelve-inch cock, whipping my dick out before sex would feel like turning over four aces at a poker game every single goddamn time!  I would get a fucking boner just thinking about my boner.

My cock also gets a lot of dickmail about Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra.  Now, if I had a footlong prick, taking a time-out between fucks might become a hassle, what with all the porn stars and supermodels patiently waiting their turn to earn their particular dent in my headboard.  I mean, what’s the use of having all that meat if you can’t use it whenever you want to?  Enter Erectile Dysfunction meds!  All the ED meds warn that, if you have an erection that lasts for more than four hours, there is a danger of permanent damage.  You know what I say to that?  Too fucking bad for her!  After four hours of fucking, she is just taking her goddamn chances.  Hell, she should consider the risk she is taking from being pounded by my massive cock long before four hours passes.

My cock doesn’t get quite as much dickmail about sperm volume as it once did.  This particular form of dickmail has, in fact, slowed down to a trickle.  I don’t know why.  And I have to admit that I did not understand these dickmails at first.  I mean, maybe in porno they call the cumshot the “money shot,” but sperm is not money.  There is no semen tax.  More is not necessarily better. 

But here is a dickmail I got for WonderCum.

Hi, Dear!

em.....

I gotta tell you something. Some years ago I used to watch porno often.  I always admired those guys cumming.

They splashed out so much sperm on their girls, it looked so cool, so manlike.  Now I have a girlfriend.. but quantity of my sperm was so scanty, that I felt ill at ease.

I was advised to eat green apples but even this didn’t help.  A month ago I was hanging around at the bar with my best friend.

And he said that I should try WONDERCUM. Well, - I thought, - sounds interesting.

Next day I came to know that it was really a highly effective all-natural dietary supplement, which not only increases the sperm volume but also improves the sperm quality and the mobility of spermatozoa.

Having ordered and tried I was shocked how cool it was.

I’d even say, it changed my life. I’m happy. I even became a better lover, knowing how it all would end.

By the way, read about WONDERCUM at this site:

Now, you know by now that I think porn is pretty sweet.  But I do not understand this dude’s dickmail.  So, he’s saying that splashing out so much sperm in porno looks “cool” and “manlike?” Well, I hope it looks manlike.  I think the only alternatives are “womanlike” and “childlike,” and neither of those works for me no matter how little sperm we’re talking about.  Then he says that he now has a girlfriend but his payload was so scanty that he felt ill at ease.  So, dude, you have a girlfriend?  She lets you splash your cream all over her?  But it doesn’t feel right because you’re not hosing her down porno-style?  Have you talked to your girlfriend about this?  Because I have a pretty good feeling that she could have put you at ease.  “Sweetheart, I’m feeling ill at ease because I don’t think I’m drenching you with enough sperm.  Does my paltry semen volume make me appear childlike or womanlike to you?  Or even worse, uncool?” You never know, but I am pretty sure that she might have cleared that up right away.  But wait.  There’s more.

So, then this dude says he was “advised to eat green apples but even this didn’t help.” Dude, who the fuck told you to eat green apples?  Are you sure that some good friend of yours was not trying to tell you that your sperm tasted bad?  If so, what the fuck is up with you and your friends? 

Okay, so, this dude is hanging at a bar with his bestest friend and the subject obviously turns to whether or not each of these dudes is properly drowning their respective significant others in massive quantities of baby batter every night.  This is at least the second person the author of our dickmail has brought this subject up to, because some other person told him to eat green apples.  This dude, who hasn’t watched porn in years, can’t stop talking to people about how fucking childlike or womanlike he feels when he splashes his girlfriend with his splooge.  But he can’t talk to her about it.

So, after his very best friend tells him about WonderCum, he learns that it (1) increases jizz volume, (2) improves goo quality, and (3) improves the mobility of his spunk puppies.  So, not only can WonderCum make you shoot cups instead of spoonfuls, it also improves sperm quality.  No more regular sperm for this dude’s girlfriend.  Now she gets drenched in premium or maybe even super.  On top of that, his sperm mobility has improved, so those tadpoles are probably just flopping all around his girlfriend.  This is one lucky woman.  What some dudes won’t do to please their girlfriends. 

For some reason, this dickmail did not sound quite right to me when I read it.  I mean, this dude has solved his problem and is obviously really serious about his girlfriend.  And he still can’t stop telling complete strangers about his sperm.

So I was not convinced about this whole semen-volume thing.  I mean, I have been with more than a few women, and not one of them has ever said anything to me along the lines of, “Make it a venti!”

But, you know, I have given this a lot more thought and it kind of makes sense.  I mean, you hold your sperm in your balls, right?  Your balls are your gravy boat, your spunk trunk.  So consider this. 

Think of your dick as a meatball submarine sandwich.  Just like at Subway Sandwiches, you can have a six-inch or a footlong, where “footlong” means twelve inches more or less but who’s counting when it’s that big?  Now, let’s say you go in, you order a six-inch sub, and the sandwich dude makes it.  So that’s the sandwich you start with.  But then you decide you want to make it a footlong.  Imagine if the dude just took half the meatballs from the six-inch and put them in the other six-inch piece of bread.  You would scream hell fucking no!  You want twice as many meatballs!

See, when you use these pills or whatever to transform your average dick into a mammoth, footlong dick, do you want the chick who sees it to say, “Well, damn that is a huge dick!  But your balls look like they belong to an average six-inch cock, not to a monster cock.” Hell fucking no!  I think the point behind all those dickmails about making a whole lot more sperm is simply this: “Hey, dude, if you are going to have a footlong hero, you need twice the meatballs and that means twice the sauce!” It just makes sense. 

When you supersize your order at McDonalds, you get a bigger cup so you can fit more milkshake into there.  It’s the opposite with your balls.  To get bigger balls, you need to make more milkshake.  A lot more milkshake.  So, these sperm volumizers like WonderCum are really just ball super-sizers.  And you need super-size balls for your super-size meat puppet to juggle.

It seems that this whole thing only makes sense if you buy the whole package: dick enlargement, dick performance enhancers, and ball super-sizers.  My dick wants it all. 

But, you know, this makes me wonder whether dudes have some massive self-image problem.  I mean, you hear all the time about women with anorexia and bulimia, and when you hear about cosmetic surgery it is almost always women who are the recipients.  Dove even has a self-esteem fund for girls! But then, how come more than half of all text-based spam is targeted not only at dudes, but specifically at their dicks?

Let’s face it: the only reason spammers keep spamming is because it works.  They actually manage to get us to buy the stuff they sell using dickmails to complete strangers.  Otherwise, no matter how cheap it is to send dickmail, it would not be worth the time and effort.  So, why are so many dudes so down on their dicks?

I really don’t have an answer here.  All I know is, maybe somebody should look into this.  I have known a lot of women, and most women — whether they are porn stars or prostitutes or moms or lawyers or teachers or talk-show hosts — are more than their pussies, their asses, their tits, and their hot little moist mouths.  But a lot of men — me included — are indeed very little more than their dicks.  Houston, we may have a problem.

Anyway, I am thinking of setting up a contact page on this site especially for my dick.  I hardly ever get any emails through the contact page, but everybody wants to email my dick.

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Fuckbots: The Book

So, I thought I would do something like a book review.  I’m no book reviewer.  In fact, probably like most book reviewers, I haven’t actually read the book I’m going to review.  I have only read snippets.  I don’t have time to read entire books.  And books are just too much fucking information.  I mean, if I read any book cover to cover, by the time I wrote the review it would say, “this book was way too long, did not have enough pictures, and really was way too goddamn boring in too many spots.”

So, in order to spare you from that review, you will get a little bit of a review of a book I have not read followed by a whole lot of talk about fucking robots.

Here is the thing: if you write reviews in your blog, word in the blogosphere is that you can get free shit.  I like free shit, even if it is free shit that is way too long, does not have enough pictures, and really is way too goddamn boring in too many spots.  I want free shit.

The book I chose not to read but to review nonetheless is called Love and Sex with Robots: The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships.  It was written by David Levy, who calls himself an “internationally recognized expert in artificial intelligence” on the book jacket. 

David Levy needs to realize that none of us is going to buy his book about fuckbots because he is an expert in artificial intelligence.  We don’t give a shit.  What has artificial intelligence got to do with fucking the shit out of robots?  Does he mean he makes robot brains and then he fucks those brains out?  If so, he should tell us that and provide lots of details.  Instead, nowhere in this book does David Levy acknowledge that he has ever actually fucked a robot.  At least not in the few parts of it that I skimmed.  If he has not actually fucked at least a few robots, where the hell does he get off telling us about fuckbots anyway?  And I am not even asking for him to have fucked very realistic robosluts or anything.  He could fuck a Roomba or Squawkers McCaw for all I care.  I just want to know he is not making all this shit up.

This book, first of all, made me wonder whether I would fuck a robot.  I thought about that for all of, oh, twenty seconds.  Fuck yes!  I would fuck a robot!  In fact, I would buy porn that featured somebody fucking a robot.  Hell, I would buy porn of robots fucking other robots.  That would be totally awesome!

Anyway, in a lot of this book he writes about how we love our pets and how we love our cars.  So, as far as he is concerned, we will one day love our robots.  Yeah, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I am not going to keep reminding you that I did not read those parts of the book.  Get to the fuckbots.

David Levy, we do not fuck our pets or our cars.  At least, I don’t fuck my cat or my car.  I do not fuck my cat not only because she is not into me that way, but because she would scratch my fucking eyes out.  I am pretty sure that you can spot the dude on the subway who tried to fuck his cat the night before because he has no goddamn eyes and his lips are connected to the rest of his face with scotch tape.  As far as fucking my car, I have thought of a lot of nasty shit but I had never really considered fucking my car before now.  My particular car is a little masculine for my tastes, but are there cars I would fuck?  It would have to be a very sexy, kind of effeminate car for me to want to fuck it.  And it does sound kind of risqué to think of fucking a hybrid.  But, I’m thinking, suppose I go out one night and have a few drinks, right?  Well, I can’t drive my car.  And, after a few drinks, some cars — like maybe a VW Beetle — probably look pretty damn sexy.  So, yes, given the right circumstances, I would probably fuck a car. 

I hope the car manufacturers out there are reading this fuckbot book, too, and thinking, “You know, cars are not really as easily fuckable as they could be.  Maybe we should stick a few fuckholes on every car in convenient places.” That would make all the difference to me.  We should start a letter-writing campaign or something.

I should mention that this book also talks a lot about sexual appliances like vibrators and such.  Vibrators, it turns out, have a long and boring history.  I did not read that part either.  But I note that David Levy does not really talk about the cool vibrators, like this Hello Kitty vibrator for the girl who must have everything Hello Kitty.  Notice the cute little teddy bear Hello Kitty has in her crotch.  I think that’s a sweet touch. 

Yes, I would fuck Hello Kitty, too.

Anyway, after all of this bullshit David Levy gets down to his central idea.  The point of all the crap before was to build up a case that, just like we love our dogs and our motorcycles, we will one day just love the hell out of our robots.  That’s fine.  But what he’s getting at is that we will be happy to tell everybody that we are in love with our robots.  And, in fact, we will want to marry our robots.

I don’t see how the rest of the book leads to this conclusion.  Yes, we love our pets and our cars.  Yes, we give them human-like qualities.  Maybe we even fuck our cars.  And, yeah, there are people who fuck animals but we throw them in jail because they embarrass the rest of us.  We don’t marry either our pets or our cars. 

David Levy says, though, that fuckbots are going to get so real and so human-like that not only will we fall in love with them but we will want to marry them, and it will be socially acceptable to marry them by 2050.  He says some things are socially acceptable — like homosexuality and masturbation — that were taboo only a little while ago.  David Levy has been smoking crack.

Listen, David, it doesn’t matter how lifelike robots are.  People will not marry them.  I’ll tell you why.  You are right that everybody knows that it is perfectly okay to jerk off.  Everybody does it all the time.  But it’s not okay to talk about it unless you are a stoogepie. 

Similarly, there will never come a time in near human history when even I will go into work and tell anyone who asks that I fucked my car, however sexy and effeminate my car is.

And, yes, masturbation is not abnormal.  People do it all the time.  In fact, my hand loves me and I love my hand.  But no matter how lifelike and human my hand may be, there will not come a time when it is okay for me to marry my fucking hand! 

As it stands, human beings cannot even marry just any human beings they want to marry.  Men cannot marry men, and women cannot marry women, no matter how much they love each other.  Now, fine, maybe there will be some sea change in this country.  Maybe there will come a time when it is not only okay to marry any human you want to, but when you can marry inanimate but human-like objects.  But, damn, that’s a stretch.  If David Levy thinks that all the religious conservatives will be dead by 2050, then why couldn’t I marry my fucking car?  I might love my car and cars will undoubtedly get more human-like in coming years.  My car already gives me driving directions in a human voice and tells me I am a douchebag when it comes to parking.  In ten years, it will talk to me during long drives and hopefully suck my dick at rest areas.  I still will not be able to marry it.

And, seriously, does David Levy live in the same world we do?  I mean, forget about marrying your sex toys, all sex toys are illegal in some places like Alabama.  Obviously, a lot of people think that is just fine.  I don’t quite understand it myself.  I can walk into any goddamn pawnshop in Alabama and walk out with a gun.  That’s fine.  But we need protect people from dildos?

(For you poor, deprived dudes in Alabama who need things to fuck, you might want to check out these plans for a Popcorn Pocket Pussy, if you’re into the whole do-it-yourself thing.)

I just don’t see the whole married-to-a-robot-happily-ever-after thing happening.  Fuck all these long explanations, though.  I can explain why in five words: Hello!  It’s a fucking robot!

But the subject of fuckbots is a fun one as long as we don’t complicate it with marriage.

One of the coolest issues to arise from this topic is whether or not it would be okay to live out illegal fantasies with robots.  Like, for instance, could dudes who are into kids get kidbots, and could dudes who are into goats get goatbots?  I don’t see why not.  You can already buy inflatable animals for fucking, if that’s what you’re into.  I don’t think you can buy inflatable children today, but there are weird tiny sex dolls.  And what would be the harm in kidbots, anyway?  Whatever yanks your crank.  Robopedophilia is not against the law.  And — hello! — it’s a fucking robot!  Similarly, you could get robot chicks with dicks, robots you rape and beat up, robot grannies, robots that piss on you, whatever little fantasies you have, you sick fuck.

Maybe some people are worried that allowing people to live out their sick fantasies with fuckbots makes it more likely that they will want to live them out with humans.  That seems pretty stoopid to me.  There are all sorts of fuckdolls out there already, some of them pretty realistic.  In fact, there are already realistic (but pretty stoopid and ugly) fuckbots out there. If you kick your realistic doll’s ass every night and strangle it, you are just wasting a lot of money because the realistic ones do not come cheap.  But if that’s what turns you on, have at it.  I have yet to hear of even one case of a rapist or pedophile who practiced on his dolly and then decided that he was ready to try the real thing.

Also, there are some pretty fucked up sex toys out there.  I mean, you can buy fuckable mouths and fuckable asses and all sorts of weird shit.  My favorite is the fuckable foot with a cunt in the sole.  WTF?!?  But you just don’t hear about people who have used these devices and then decide they want to graduate to human beings, so they go out and slice somebody’s face off or slice off just an ass. 

People are able to separate their sick fantasies from their lame-assed realities.  We can even separate awesome things we have experienced from things we should expect to experience in everyday life.  I’ve done some wild shit, but I do not expect that the next time I bring home a bimbo from a bar she will be ready to have her ass lubed up or think fucking over a toilet in the stinky stall of a men’s room is sickly fucking sweet like I do!  Hell, she might not even be ready for handcuffs!  See, we limit our expectations based on the sad, pussy-assed world we live in.  You can’t always get what you want.

But here is what I want.  I want a hot, nasty slutbot.  My own private roboho.  And until I can get one, I might just get a Prius.

Anyway, that’s all I have to say about the book I did not read.  Now send me my free shit.

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Stoopid Is As Stoopid Does

Are you stoopid?  I ask because, according to some, a whole lot of you are, indeed, stoopid.  Like, maybe most of us would have done about as badly as Kellie Pickler (of American Idol fifteen minutes) does here when asked a third-grade geography question on the show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader.  I think I would have gotten this particular question right, but that certainly does not prove that I’m smart.  Why the fuck do I even know what country has Budapest as its capital?  Why the fuck do I need to know that?  Why is it important at all to know what the capitals of any countries or states are?  Why are we teaching third-graders this crap?  They will just forget it like the rest of us.  They will forget it because they have absolutely no need to remember it.  We could instead be teaching children valuable lessons they will use for the rest of their lives, like how to mow the lawn.  It’s not going to mow itself, you know.  How about we teach third-graders how to make a decent batch of cookies?  I want some cookies and I don’t feel like making them myself, and I don’t want any of those hard, crumbly cookies I can buy at the store.  I want fresh cookies.  Now, third grader!

What has remembering anything at all got to do with being smart or stoopid?  I guess am so stoopid that I don’t even know what stoopid means. 

According to a National Geographic survey, most young adults in America don’t know shit about geography.  They can’t locate anything on a map.  About eleven percent can’t even locate the United States on a map.  Well, National Geographic, have you noticed that most maps have words on them indicating where particular places are?  Do you think that maybe there is a reason for that?

So, a lot of Americans don’t know where they are in the world.  Why is this a big deal?  Is the fear that one day one of those people will be piloting a spaceship in outer space, just floating around, and he will need to get home without a GPS or anything else to show him where the US is?  He won’t even have one of those crazy maps that has the names of places in big letters over each place, so he will be stuck in outer space forever.  Big fucking deal.  If that happens, too fucking bad for that dude.  Boo fucking hoo.  Let him float out there.  He should at least have brought a goddamn map with him.  Or, how about this?  He can just land any-fucking-where.  As long as he doesn’t land in the water, he can probably get home no matter where he lands his goddamn spaceship.  He can stop in, let’s say, Sweden, where people apparently know a whole lot of geography according to the survey, and ask someone, “Do you know where the United States is?” Hopefully, Swedish people also know English since they are so fucking cosmopolitan, and they would say, “Ja!”

I used to know a girl who was a Geography major in college.  Let’s call her Sabrina.  And, yes, you read that right: she was a Geography major.  In college.  I guess she intended to go into one of the Big Five geography firms after she graduated.  Anyway, Sabrina was from Canada and she knew a whole fucking lot about places.  If you put one of those maps without the names of places in front of her, she could find anywhere.  And Sabrina knew the capital of every goddamn place.  I knew Sabrina because, at a very young age, she married a friend of mine here in the United States.  She met him over the internet and, one day, drove down from Canada and married him.  She probably didn’t use any maps the whole way down.  After they were married for a couple of years, Sabrina ran off to the Midwest to live with the brother of a has-been movie star.  No kidding.  She just picked up and left my friend one day, and headed for the Midwest United States.  I think she had met the brother of a has-been movie star over the internet, too.  Then she dropped the brother of the has-been movie star and, after that, I lost track of Sabrina.  I don’t know what the fuck Sabrina is up to today or where she is.  But she does.  Sabrina knows exactly where she is.

But you know what?  I do not want Sabrina piloting my goddamn spaceship anyway.  Even with a bunch of maps with words on them and GPS and other navigational devices, I do not want Sabrina piloting my spaceship.  I would rather just take my chances that I can land somewhere and find some Swede who speaks enough English to tell me where the United States is.

Like I said, Swedish people seem to know a lot about geography.  If you are American, when you are floating around in space without a clue about where to land your spaceship, maybe you can ask some Swedish dude who floats by in one of the spaceships that is part of Sweden’s massive space program.  Uh huh.  You count on that Swedish flagship passing by.

As far as I can see from the survey, the likelihood that people in your particular country know a whole lot about geography is directly related to just how lame your country is.  Sure people in Sweden know where they are.  They probably cry about it every day.  “Shit!  I’m still in Sweden!  Might as well yodel while I stare at the map some more.”

The only people who did worse than the Americans in the survey were the Mexicans.  But I think the Mexicans were lying.  When they got a call from National Geographic they didn’t know it wasn’t a call from the US Immigration and Naturalization Service.  So, yeah, they were like, “No, I don’t know where the United States is!  I have no fucking idea!  I don’t know where anything is!  Hey, where the fuck am I?  Oops, forgot my name.  No, my bags are not packed.” All I know is that, when the time is right, Mexicans do not seem to have any more trouble finding the United States than the Swedes.

There was another survey that was supposed to show how stoopid Americans are.  That study was done by a group called Common Core.  It asked a bunch of questions about history and literature, with a question about Plato and Aristotle thrown in there just to make you sweat.  If you want take the test yourself, you can download the quiz here.

This test was given to seventeen-year-olds, and the results demonstrate that seventeen-year-old Americans don’t know a whole lot of the history and literature they were asked about.  About one in ten thought that Hitler was a munitions manufacturer between the world wars.  Big deal.  Everyone knows he was a big prick with a little moustache.  Everybody knows that, if you want for people to think you’re a prick, wear a moustache like his.  Hitler is dead but his fashion legacy lives on: you will never see anyone with a stoopid little moustache like his again.  The correct choice on that question was, “Adolf Hitler was the Chancellor of Germany during the Second World War.” I bet it’s the “Chancellor of Germany” part that tripped up the seventeen-year-olds.  If the correct choice had been, “Hitler was a big prick who was dictator of Germany during the Second World War and had a nasty-assed little moustache that nobody has worn since,” you can bet that our nation’s youth would have done a lot better.

All the other questions are just like that.  Yeah, 26% of seventeen-year-olds thought that Christopher Columbus sailed after 1750.  So?  Big fucking deal.  Here is what you need to know about Christopher Columbus: when he got to America, he did not know where the fuck he was in the world.  He could not have identified the United States on a map that did not have “United States” written in big letters across it because, even though he was in North America, he had no fucking idea where he was.  If Christopher Columbus had been in a spaceship, he would still be floating around in space watching porn and eating cake, and Sabrina would have ditched you in your spaceship to go to Chris’s.  If it matters to you whether you would be floating around aimlessly in 1492 or 1792, you deserve to be floating in space with Christopher Fucking Columbus.

I could go through all the questions, but I won’t because it is boring.  The whole report is boring.  The quiz is boring.  The information is useless.  I bet that everybody at Common Core could score an A on that quiz.  Whoopty fucking doo.  Now that they have aced the history and literature that they chose, maybe they can figure out how to design a decent website without text so small you need a magnifying glass to read it, except for that one sentence on the front page that is in type so fucking huge that Chris Columbus can see it from the window of his spaceship.  Maybe in between coming up with tests designed to stump American seventeen-year-olds, they could pop over to MySpace or Blogger and see that seventeen-year-olds kick their asses at designing web pages.  Oh, knowing about Geoffrey Chaucer, with his “Knyghtes Tale” and his “Hoost to the compaignye,” is so much more relevant to modern life than knowing how to put together a proper goddamn website, right?

I read Chaucer in college in its original Middle English.  Today, I have no goddamn clue what “the Freres Tale” or any other one of the stories was about.  If I knew a seventeen-year-old who read that shit, I would kick his ass.  What kind of whacked-out freak are you?  How much time do you spend reading Tolkien and playing D&D?  You are just about to shoot up your fucking high school, aren’t you?  Can you please help me design my website and whip me up some fucking cookies?

If you ask me, memorizing useless shit like the capitals of things and what year particular events occurred is pretty fucking stoopid.  How smart would it be for you to memorize all that geography crap based on the snowball’s-chance-in-hell theory that maybe someday you will be stuck in a spaceship without any navigational equipment?  That’s like you memorizing every organ in the body because, you never know, you just might have to sew together a human being from scratch someday.  Hey, maybe you had better just memorize everything about everything because tomorrow you could be God. 

Hey, you elitist cocksuckers at Common Core and National Geographic, how come I never see headlines telling me about how some guy is alive today only because he knew where Japan was on a map without any places named on it?  And how come I never hear about how the next generation of hybrid cars was inspired by The Federalist Papers?

Maybe I am stoopid, but if I am ever out hanging with my friends and one of them tells me that he was able to solve any problem — any problem in his personal or professional life at all — by remembering Chaucer, I will have his ass committed in a heartbeat. 

And don’t accuse me of being anti-intellectual.  I am not saying you shouldn’t read Chaucer or you shouldn’t read The Federalist Papers or you shouldn’t stare at maps and yodel for hours on end.  Be my guest.  Just don’t expect for me to do it and think that it’s what makes me an intellectual.  If I’m smart at all, it’s because I don’t allow a bunch of assholes to tell me what to read or what I need to know.

Oh, also, those assholes are just wrong about kids: see this article and this article.  Kids today are doing better than they have ever been.  Maybe the assholes at Common Core have their hearts are in the right place, but I wouldn’t know.  How the fuck am I supposed to know where a goddamn heart is supposed to be?

One other thing: it’s the Swiss who yodel.  Not the Swedish.  Whatever.

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No Fat Jokes

I don’t make fun of fat people for a number of reasons.  Principle among those reasons is that fat people are bigger than I am.  They can squish me.  If the world were truly a Darwinian playground, fat people would rule us all.  We would most fear fat people wearing big shoes because they could step on us.  The fattest fatties with the biggest feet would be our kings and queens.

Instead, we treat fat people like shit.  We call fat people “obese,” which is not so bad because “obese” is just a word that means “fat.” But we call the fattest fatties “morbidly obese.” Is that very nice?  I mean, look up the word “morbid” on dictionary.com.  That is just plain old disrespectful.  We don’t have a nasty-assed name like that for any other group.  For instance, you don’t hear people calling old folks “cadaverously old” or “lifelessly geriatric” or anything, and that is an accurate description of somebody whose social security number is in fucking roman numerals.  Meanwhile, we could kick old people’s asses!  I mean, the skinniest person could step on any human fossil and squish it.  And let’s face it: we all look at grandma every now and then and wonder whether she is good for anything at all, and follow that up by briefly musing about whether she contains any nutrients we could use.  But we treat her nice anyway and smile as she tells us about how, when she was just a girl, she ate nothing but broken glass for an entire winter and wore red potato peels in her hair just to be fashionable.  Yeah, right, granny.  Still, we don’t even accurately call old people “delusionally old” or anything.  But it’s okay to call fat people “morbidly obese?”

We should respect fat people.  They are bigger than we are!  They could squish us!  And, if we keep disrespecting them, they will squish us.  Listen, we have all heard news about people so fat that they can’t fit through their front doors to leave their homes, and that may be all that saves us from their wrath. 

When you think about it, it’s got to suck to be so fat that you can’t leave your home.  And there must be some particular day when that happens.  Like, you get dressed to meet some friends to go see a movie, and then you get to the front door and you just can’t fit through it.  You can’t get outside.  So, you call your friends and you have to tell them. 

That has just got to hurt, and there must be some anger behind that.  Even worse, imagine if you go out to have a disgustingly colossal dinner befitting a behemoth such as yourself and, when you get home, that’s when you can’t fit through your front door!  You’re just stuck out there on your front lawn wondering whether the lawn gnome tastes good.  Think about that the next time you presume that fat people don’t want to squish your skinny ass.

And what if all the fattiest fatsos got together tomorrow?  I don’t mean got together in the same place, because where would they all fit?  But I mean, what if they started their own social networking site, FatSpace or WhaleBook or something?  What if they all decided that they were going to squish us?  What could we do?

Very fat people are like superheroes.  They can absorb bullets.  They can flatten cars.  Yeah, they’re not so fast, but what does that get us?  Even if we could catch them and somehow wrestle them to the ground, handcuffs won’t fit on their bulging wrists.  And what jail cell could hold them?  Already, we let fat people out of prison because they are too fat for us to hold them.  Hey, this woman got house arrest — because she was too fat to leave her house anyway — after she killed a two-year-old, probably to make a sandwich!

So, don’t fuck with the fatsos.  They are not even the minority anymore.  I suggest that, before they organize the Million Pound March, we start to show fatsos the respect they deserve.  For instance, instead of calling them “morbidly obese,” why not “godlike obese?” And maybe we should all follow Eddie Murphy’s and Tyler Perry’s lead, spending half of our lives in fat suits and making believe it is inexplicably funny.  Hey, Tyra Banks wore a fat suit for one day and she cried so much that genuine fatties in the audience of her show who wore a flesh-and-bones fat suit 365 fucking days a year consoled her.  Poor, skinny supermodel Tyra!

By “don’t fuck with the fatsos,” I don’t mean “don’t fuck the fatsos.” There are a lot of dudes out there who are into fat chicks and vice versa.  More power to you!  There used to be a myth that all fat people were as happy and jolly as Santa Claus getting a Christmas blowjob, and that has been replaced with a myth that all fat people are depressed and lonely.  I suspect that, just like other people, fat people might just experience a full range of emotions.  In fact, fat people probably experience emotions more intensely than the rest of us, if you count hunger as an emotion.  Whether that’s true or not, to whatever extent we can, we should strive to keep fatties happy and satisfied so they don’t decide to squish us.  So, please, fuck fat people.  Fuck away.

Like many other people, I used to have a bias against fat people, with the slightly fat drawing less derision from me than the very fattiest fatsos.  I thought that making fun of fat people was okay.  Now I realize that this was nothing more than prejudice.  I don’t make fun of them anymore.  Yes, it’s true that every one of us knows a fatty we can track walking down the street by looking at satellite images on Google Maps.  Just don’t bring it up to them anymore.  And, yeah, we all know some fatsos who call restaurants and, instead of requesting reservations, get competitive bids.  Fine.  Just keep it to yourself.

I know that it sucks that we can hardly make jokes about anybody anymore.  The sense-of-humor deficit seems to be growing and growing.  Well, that’s a fact, and your jokes had better reflect it.  We can celebrate our differences as long as that celebration is somber rather than funny, or as long as we are celebrating our differences from able-bodied, very normal white dudes.  All I can say is that you had better realize this, too.  Otherwise, you might just get squished. 

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Political Comic

Lest you think that all stoogepie does is watch porn and eat cake, here is my first (and likely my last) political cartoon.

In case you don’t recognize them, one of the three senators depicted will be the next president of the United States unless a snowball’s-chance-in-hell third-party candidate wins.  Or unless, far more likely, martial law is imposed and elections are put off until there is even more peace on earth and good will toward men than we already have right now.

There.  I have earned some credibility.  Stay tuned for more porn and cake (unless I think of something really fucking hilarious to say about the subprime mortgage crisis).

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